The Adventure of the London Hound
by Kittensandcake
Summary: John Watson is distraught after he loses his best friend Sherlock Holmes, but after three years is told he should move on. Once he has, a case comes to 221B that could easily mean the death of more than one of the residents...
1. Chapter 1

Everything was quiet in 221B. It used to be filled with noise, the tenants arguing playfully or one of them blowing something up for an 'experiment'. Now his equipment was all packed up and sitting in large cardboard boxes on the kitchen floor. His room had also been cleared out. The whole apartment seemed to be made up of varying shades of dull grey, the only light being from the large windows which had been covered with heavy curtains, and the unnatural, draining glow from a laptop.

The silence was broken by the gentle _tap-tap _of someone's fingers on a keyboard. John felt tired, depressed and lonely as he typed on his laptop. He had left his blog alone for a long time because of...his mind pushed the thought away and he shook his head to get rid of it completely. He saw enough when he was asleep, when the nightmares came out to play. John took a pause from writing to rub his temples. Stupid computer, he thought. Always gave him stupid headaches if he worked for too long, which was often now. The pounding behind his eyes didn't fade so he reached for his mug to sip his tea. It was stone cold. John rolled his eyes and muttered "Of course,"

He perked up when his laptop beeped. A message? No-one contacted him any more, unless it was Lestrade trying to convince him to come back and try being the detective _he _had been. John opened the email then scanned through it. His therapist, wanting to meet him after his months of solitude. For some time John just considered it. Maybe it was what he needed. If he could come to terms with...with it, the nightmares could stop. He had already lost weight, he could see it in the mirror every morning. Sunken eyes with no hope left in them, his face looking more skull-like with each passing day. John decided, typed his response and reached for his cane. May as well try.

"Hello John," She stood to shake his hand carefully then motioned for him to take a seat. "It's been a long time since I saw you. How have you been doing?" Her voice was full of concern, something John had been hearing constantly. Everyone acted like he was made of glass, that one push, one harsh word would make him shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Fine," He lied.

"I see," She nodded then scratched something down on her notebook. John had to resist the urge to read it. "What about your feelings towards your friends death?" Immediately John's face creased into a frown and his whole body tensed.

"Fine,"

She looked at him. "John. I need the truth, otherwise I can't help you," There was silence, John debating what to do. She could clearly see how broken he looked. People stared at him in the street as he limped to the shops or just went for a walk.

"Not good,"

She nodded sympathetically. "Would you care to tell me about it?"

"I..." John was about to deny his claim, say he wasn't ready, just get out of it. But he didn't. "I can't get over him. I don't even try. I can't bear thinking about him, I just..." His throat was uncomfortably hot, a huge lump forming in it so he took a moment to swallow and collect himself. "I want him back," John finished pathetically.

"I can understand that," She raised her eyebrows and smiled gently. "Maybe the course to take here John, is to take action. Move on yourself instead of waiting,"

John looked up from staring at the carpet. "What...what do you mean?"

"You are still living at-" Her eyes darted to his file then back to him "-221B, Baker Street? The house you shared with Sherlock Holmes?" John nodded blankly. "Well, why don't you put out an ad for a room-mate? Having someone else living in the flat might change the way you look at it,"

John shook his head. "No. I, I can't do that. I can't..." Tears covered his vision in a blurry film so he was forced to rub them.

"Why don't you think about it?" She tilted her head. "John, it's been three years. You have to move on,"

Back in the apartment, John re-read what he had written. An ad, for the window of the corner-shop. Mrs Hudson had agreed to keep the rate the same, for him and whoever decided to come and live with him. It felt so final though. Like he was giving up on Sherlock, him accepting that he had died. But he did you moron, he thought. What did you expect? He leapt of a building, to save you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson...He had no idea what Moriarty would have done on that roof. Sherlo-_He_, had met his match on that roof. Someone who could beat him at his own game.

John put his head in his hands. "Stop it," His voice was quiet, wavering dangerously. "Stop thinking he's alive you bloody idiot. He didn't make it, he's dead John! Get that into your thick head you stupid, stupid moron," John shouted to himself. In a blur he stood and threw his fist at the wall. Pain spiked up his arm, making him howl then slide to the floor. "He's dead," He repeated over and over to himself. "He's never coming back," John wept for a long time, ignoring everything but the sensation of his chest tearing itself apart.

He slept on the floor that night. John had been exhausted after his breakdown, and the floor was practically a feather bed to him. When he woke the first things that registered were that the curtains and windows were open, and someone had placed a tray of food and drink next to him. Mrs Hudson no doubt. John sat up slowly, just taking in everything around him. His headache was gone, thank god. For once he hadn't had a single nightmare. Maybe, maybe this was the right thing to do, John thought quietly. Let him go.

John eventually pushed himself to his feet and onto his chair. At a touch his laptop was ready and willing, with the advert from last night all there. Without a second thought he clicked on print, then sipped at the tea he had been left. It was good, very strong and sweet with milk. Exactly how...how Sherlock had liked it. To the side of the room the printer whirred softly and the simple ad rolled out. John stood, took a firm grip on his cane, and hobbled over to get it. It looked, good. Simple, readable, and would fortunately be boring enough to scare away any teenagers or uni kids looking. "Okay then," He murmured to himself. "Let's go give you in,"

It had been five days since John had watched as the ad was sealed behind a plastic cover and displayed in the shop window for the world to see. It had actually stood out, it's black and white typed text out of place amongst the pencil-scrawled ads with a bad photo stuck on clumsily with a glue stick. All the same, no-one had called. Not a single person had called up, sent an email, or even just came to the door. Everyone had been strangely quiet. He had felt slightly happier. His grey world had been injected with faint colours, a watery blue sky here, some weak green on the trees budding branches. John felt more relaxed than usual and was relying less and less on his cane to walk. His therapist had been right for once. Letting go was easier than he had thought it would be. True, every time he saw something related to Sherlock a pang would go through it but it was better than the wrenching grief he had felt a year ago.

The doorbell rang, a sudden trilling sound. John almost dropped his tea onto the floor in surprise, then a small smile made his mouth curve upwards. Someone wanted to share with him! He put the half-empty mug onto the table so quickly a little sloshed out onto his hand which he wiped hastily on his jumper as he grabbed his cane. John always found stairs a problem with his leg, but he practically flew down to get to the door. "Just coming!" He called at the bottom of the stairs. He flicked the chain away, unlocked the door and swung it open.

"Hi there..." John felt the words die in his mouth and his mouth hang open slightly.

The slender, black-haired figure at the door smiled faintly, holding the ad in one gloved hand. "Hello John,"


	2. Chapter 2

((Just a note to say I am really sorry that I took so long doing this, writers block first then ALL of my programs shut down so I basically couldn't write -.- Now I am writing again, and I will probably throw in an OC so I have a case, but probably not for a few chapters. Or something...so, yeah. Thanks for waiting, and I am going to be continuing!))

"You..." John just couldn't find the words he needed. He just stared blankly at the man on his doorstep. "I...I saw you die, Sherlock. I checked your pulse..." A rush of anger made his vision go red. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Leaving me, alone?!"

"John, just let me explain-" Sherlock took a step forwards John, his eyes pleading with him to stay calm. Out of nowhere John's hand connected with Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock stumbled backwards from the blow, his head snapping back with a shout. "Ow!" He protested as he brought his hand to his now bleeding face. "For God's sake!"

"You left me all alone!" John was close to tears now. He thought it was over, his life was finally able to be put back together. "Why?! You could have said anything, send me a postcard for God's sake! Anything just to tell me you were alive," He ran a hand through his hair as he turned away from Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock's words brought him back around. He was holding his cheek, but otherwise he made no move towards John. "I am sorry. About everything," His voice was low and full of hurt. "Please, forgive me,"

After a moment, which felt like a lifetime, John moved aside to let him in. He didn't wait to see if he caught the door or followed him in, but just walked upstairs and looked for his first aid kit. He waited for Sherlock to hang his coat up and sit on the sofa before he sat next to him. "Stay still," John ordered blankly, as he ripped open a little packet. Carefully he cleaned the cut, wiping away the blood then searching the box for a plaster. The cut wasn't too big, honestly it probably hurt his hand more than Sherlock's face. Already his knuckles felt stiff and he knew they would be bruised tomorrow.

After placing the plaster over the scratch he packed up the kit, absently throwing the antiseptic wipe into the bin. Sherlock guessed that the action had more to do with shock than confidence, but he kept his mouth shut and just watched John as he put the kit back then sat in his armchair, looking at Sherlock.

"John..." John held up his hand to stop Sherlock speaking. "I just..."

"Shut up." He glared at Sherlock. "I want you to explain it to me. Why you jumped. And why you are here now, why you tricked me," Sherlock felt guilty as hell. He had expected this, truly he had, but to have actually happen in front of him just showed him how little he knew about how emotions worked.

"Okay..." Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself. "On the roof, I knew what Moriarty was going to do. Hold you at ransom, because he knew that my disgrace wouldn't be enough to make me jump. He wanted me to figure it out, all along. I think...I think he wanted to know that he wasn't alone, in his own way," He understood that part more than he should. That he didn't want to be the only interesting person in this world. "I played along, then I genuinely thought I had won," Shaking his head self-mockingly he chuckled lowly. "Clearly I was wrong. He shot himself, on the roof, and left me with his ultimatum. So...I jumped,"

"But you didn't," John interjected. "Because otherwise you would be six foot under by now, and I would still be imagining that you were here," Sherlock looked up with his face contorted. "John...I..."

"Don't bother. Keep going,"

Sherlock nodded slowly, swallowing hard. "I set it up. I won't go into details, but it was all to take down Moriarty's network. He was a spider, I had to go everywhere. But now...he's gone. I couldn't come back straight away because..."

"Because what?" John leant forwards slightly, his head tilted to the side and his anger forgotten.

"If I came back immediately, you would have been shot," He finished simply. "You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. All of you," Sherlock ran a hand across his face. "You...you are my only friends, I couldn't let that happen,"

After a long, tense silence John sighed softly. "You bloody, insufferable , moronic idiot. I could strangle you right now," Instead he stood up and nodded. "But, I don't think I could go through that again," A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Sherlock rose with him, mimicking his smile. He held his hand out, formally and somewhat stiffly. John ignored it, and pulled the detective into a hug. "Just don't ever do that to me again," He growled. Sherlock was startled at the hug, but he relaxed and laughed. "I'll try not to,"

John broke off the hug, then seemed to be hit by multiple realisations at once. "We need to tell everyone, Mrs Hudson, Scotland Yard, the world! Mycrof tneeds to know, I guess Molly already does..."

"Oh, Mycroft knows," Sherlock grimaced. "Sadly I had to ask for his help. He is _never _going to let me forget it,"

"Well, yes," John said uncertainly. "But we still need to tell people," Sherlock shrugged and sighed. "You're forgetting the most important part of my resurrection,"

"What's that?"

Sherlock smirked. "Finding another case, of course,"


	3. Chapter 3

After that little moment of peace, the day became something resembling ordered chaos. They had just broken up the well meant, yet slightly awkward hug, then Mrs Hudson had taken the opportunity to come up with a tray of food. She reacted in more or less the same way as John, except with lots more tears and no hitting. In the end she was just thankful for Sherlock being alive, and that Mycroft had insisted on paying his rent so John could continue to live at 221B.

"I couldn't imagine renting it out to anyone else," She had admitted after drinking a very strong tea with lots of sugar. "It would have been a shame to have some teenagers living here, messing everything up, playing loud music and drinking every night..." Mrs Hudson thought about what she had said, and then laughed lightly. "I guess it wouldn't have been too different from what you two boys do,"

The reactions at Scotland Yard had been of a mixed variety. Lestrade had sworn and almost punched Sherlock until he had explained everything. Lestrade had listened add fumed, but ended up gripping him in a bone-breaking hug as he called him all sorts of names. Donovan's tight-lipped smile and handshake were clearly forced, to the extent that she looked constipated, which had made Sherlock chuckle. Anderson had surprised everyone by hugging Sherlock, then denying it to anyone who would listen.

It was up to Sherlock to tell the newspapers that he was still alive. It had always been up to him really, even if someone had leaked it. In the end he actually decided to leave the public out of it, at least until he was settled and everything was in order. John had smiled on the whole time. Sherlock was alive. Truly alive, not a dream or a mirage. Alive.

((This is literally a transition chapter. Sorry, next chapter is going to be much, much more interesting. I promise))


	4. Chapter 4

"W-where am I?" The woman asked shakily, looking around the cold dark room. One arm was handcuffed to a metal chair, that was in turn bolted to the floor. "Please, please, someone help me!" She cried out, as an old, battered TV set flickered on and drew her attention to the screen. It showed CCTV footage of a...she didn't see, but it looked something like a warehouse or an office building. It was bare apart from piping that ran along the walls, and a series of cameras that swivelled and blinked. A voice spoke up, crackly and hoarse, from a speaker in the corner. "Let's start, shall we?"

In minutes, the woman was screaming.

***One hour earlier***

Rosie sighed and kicked at a pile of leaves. It was official. She had been kicked out of university, and was effectively homeless. She had been stupid, which is saying something. Rosie wasn't exactly super smart, but she wasn't an complete and utter moron. Contrary to the evidence, she had allowed her stupid, selfish 'friends' to hide their drugs in her room. Which then got a random drug check. Even though her test was clean, she was forced to leave. All her studies, all her hard work, gone in a matter of hours. As her mental rant continued, Rosie walked blankly.

She had to sell her phone and other things straight away, and then had no idea where she was going to go, or who she could talk to. To a casual passer-by Rosie probably looked normal, charcoal blazer, dark jeans and white shirt, yet she knew it would only take a few days until she would become one of the people you saw at the side of the road, with lifeless eyes and a battered cardboard sign. It had been roughly three days since she had last eaten, and Rosie could almost see her ribs without sucking her stomach in, like she used to do as a little girl. All the money she had left was put into looking presentable. Rosie needed a job, needed somewhere to stay, so looking like she had been dragged backwards through a hedge was not the best option.

For some reason her feet took me to an expensive part of London, with lovely houses and clean streets. As she walked along, her feet dragging from exhaustion, Rosie noticed a sign in the window of a small corner shop. An ad, for a flat share. It looked nice, pristine among the scrawled notes for an unused teapot and other random things. After jotting the address down on her hand with a half-dead biro, Rosie looked around, realising that it was literally up the street. Her throat was parched though and she swallowed a few times. In the middle of the rows of houses was a café, so she stumbled along and pushed inside. It was warm and fuggy, like most cheap London cafés. Rosie sat at a table and stared into space for a while. "Hey luv, can I help you?" She jumped and looked up at the gruff voice. It was just the guy behind the counter, thank God. The café was empty, so she couldn't just pretend to have finished, just so she could stay in the warmth for a few more minutes. London seemed to be continually in Arctic conditions and was even more noticeable for her now. "Hi, um, how much is a cup of tea?" She fumbled for her purse before realising there was nothing in it.

"A quid," He turned and began making tea. Rosie frantically searched her pockets until she found a coin, then got up and set on the counter. He took it and handed her a gently steaming mug. "You get warm," He said kindly. Her stomach chose that moment to growl, obscenely loud in the quiet café. Rosie ducked her head in a small nod. "Thanks," She sat back down and slowly began to drink. It was hot and sweet, with tons of sugar and milk. Just how she liked it. Rosie was so lost in my thoughts that when a plate with steaming bacon sandwich on it was sat in front of her she almost jumped again. "I didn't order that…"

"On the house," He smiled and went back to the kitchen. Tears pricked at her eyes. She had become someone pathetic, someone to pity and feel sorry for. She ate the sandwich anyway, but left the rest of her change on the table as she slipped out.

As Rosie left, she sighed. This was horrible. She was actually going to be homeless. A man appeared out of no-where and Rosie crashed into him. Her brain was not in gear today. She stumbled and tripped over her own feet to land in a crumpled heap on the pavement. Something made a crunching, wet noise and she gritted her teeth against a stab of pain across her forehead. "Oh, sorry," The guy knelt down next to her and helped Rosie sit up. "Are you okay?" He asked. Blood trickled down the side of her face and she lifted my fingers to her forehead. There was a long gash there, thankfully not very deep, but big and bloody. "Shit," Rosie swore under her breath. "I take it you aren't okay then," He frowned, then helped her to her feet. "Here, come with me. I live just here, my flatmate is a doctor, and he can patch you up." Rosie nodded. There wasn't much else she could do. Part of her thought about the fact that she might just be kidnapped, but that almost seemed good, compared to wandering London with a bloody face. "I'm Rosie," She managed to say.

"Good to meet you Rosie. I'm Sherlock Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

John looked up as Sherlock kicked the door open, holding up a young woman with blood trickling down her forehead. "God," He leapt up and darted over to her. "Sherlock, what happened? Is this for a case?"

"No, I, er, knocked her over in the street," Sherlock made a face. "I was concentrating on something," He said in defence, then nodded at the girl. "I brought her in, so you could help her," John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's attempt to even the score. "Fine, for God's sake," He grumbled. "Sit her down on the sofa, I'll get the first aid kit. Again,"

Sherlock helped the girl sit down, raising his eyebrows. "Sorry," He repeated and shamelessly took the opportunity to read her. Dark brown hair, dirty and hadn't been washed in a few days. Her face was a little mucky as well, combined with the state of her clothes convinced Sherlock that she had been sleeping rough. His address had been written on her hand for some reason. She seemed weak, a normal, healthy person wouldn't have fallen at his shove. Especially one who was in full control of their mental faculties. In conclusion, one girl who had been homeless for three days, no money on her and most likely no hope either.

John startled him by pushing him out of the way, carefully tilting her head up. "This may sting a bit," He apologized, wiping her forehead with a small towel. She stayed still and only made a face when the wipe touched her forehead. John smiled comfortingly at her. "You'll live, it's not deep or too big, head wounds always bleed quite a lot," She nodded, biting her lip. "All my fault, I didn't see Mr Holmes until we bumped into each other,"

"But Mr Holmes should have been looking where he was going," John glanced up at Sherlock with a small smirk, making him roll his eyes. Rosie caught the look and smiled nervously. "So, um, how long have you two been together?" Her attempt at small talk was met by a suddenly straight-faced John and a chuckling Sherlock. "I told you so, John,"

"Shut up. We're not together," He replied hastily. "We just live together, I had a girlfriend a few months back," He added, as if to help his case.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know..." Her cheeks reddened in embarrassment and she looked down at her hands.

"Don't think about it," John laughed. "We didn't get your name, I'm John Watson,"

"I got hers," Sherlock piped up, but John silenced him with a look.

"I'm Rosie. Rosie Adams," She smiled brightly, then held out her hand. After John had shaken it and Sherlock had fallen into his armchair, she decided to ask "Were you the one who put the ad out? For a room-mate?"

Sherlock stiffened slightly, his gaze snapping to John who coughed a little awkwardly. "Yes, um, sorry, it's been filled,"

Rosie nodded slightly, starting to get up. "I should go then, thanks for sorting my head out," With a smile she made for the door. Before she could open it Sherlock was in her way, staring her down. "Where will you go?"

"Somewhere." Rosie looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because you don't have anywhere to go, you don't want to call your parents or whomever was taking care of you for the past fifteen, sixteen years,"

She blinked a few times, just making sure she had heard him correctly. "I'm sorry, but that's none of you business," Rosie replied coldly as she reached for the door.

"It is now," He moved again to block her exit. "I knocked you over and now I sadly feel obliged to help you. My conscience has been playing up since I returned to London,"

"I'll say," They both turned to look at John, who was leaning against the banister. "Sherlock, Mrs Hudson still has the flat upstairs. I'm sure if we helped Rosie she could move in," Rosie brightened imperceptibly. Would these guys actually do this for her?

"Why not?" Sherlock shrugged before narrowing his eyes and pinning her with a look. "I trust you're not one of those students who has wild parties with all your insufferable friends at three in the morning, and gets drunk whenever you're not studying?"

"You really don't need to worry about that. I lost them all when they left their drugs in my room," Rosie shrugged, feeling slightly smug at the expressions on their faces. "But no, none of that,"

"Well...erm, that's good then, hey Sherlock?" John broke the awkward silence with a cough.

"Do you do drugs?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he stared her down. She didn't look like a druggie, far from it. She'd probably never even smoked before.

"No. It's a waste of time and money, in my opinion," Folding her arms she glared right back. Sherlock chuckled as he turned to look up at John. "I guess we should ask Mrs Hudson then,"


	6. Chapter 6

"Remind me why I thought coming with you was a good idea?" Rosie sat in the back of the cab, her arms crossed as Sherlock typed away on his phone.

"I don't know if you thought that, but it might have got something to do with the free rent," Sherlock said absently. Rosie sighed, staring out of the window.

"Yes," She drew the word out into two syllables. "But why else? A lovely corpse and a few insufferable sounding police officers don't really sound that great,"

"Corpses are never lovely, but they are interesting. That is why I took the case," Sherlock stuffed his phone into his pocket with an pert nod. "A cure for boredom, as it were. I can get incredibly bored, you have provided me with a small amount of entertainment for the past few days. You're an incredibly heavy sleeper, however,"

Rosie bristled, not sure if it was a compliment or an insult. "How did you know that? Apart from standing in my room watching me sleep? Because that is just plain creepy,"

"Please, I'm not a common stalker," Rolling his eyes he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "I was playing my violin at three, yesterday and this morning. You didn't even stir, although John did the moment he heard. I'd shut the door and everything," Sherlock huffed. "Really he has no consideration for my thought processes,"

"Sounds like it," She replied sarcastically. "Being woken up at three by a violin, he should have offered to make you a cup of tea instead of tell you to go to sleep already," Sherlock went to make a cutting remark, but instead raised his eyebrows and let out a breath before turning his gaze to the window. She was stubborn, that's all he knew. Well, that and everything about her life, her clothes, social habits...the list went on, and Sherlock was certain that he probably knew her better than her parents. Who were actually incredibly respectable. Mr and Mrs Stapleton...He knew the names, of course, but it they were the ones he was talking about, he didn't know. If they were, then he wondered why she had left. Lots of money, probably had a large house, no reason to leave. Which is why she intrigued him. Why run away from that, and train to be a doctor, when she had everything she could want for at home. After a millisecond of thinking he half smiled. She couldn't stand it, of course. A lot like him, enough money and the smarts to be an incredible business man or even a philosopher if he wanted. Yet when he was young he had wanted to be a pirate.

The crime scene was a dilapidated warehouse, the windows boarded up messily with graffiti sprayed on the crumbling brick work. The whole area had been corded off with the garish yellow police tape, marking out a large circle around the entrance to the building. Sherlock paid and slid out of the cab lithely, walking across to the tape without noticing anyone else. Rosie followed him quickly, already annoyed at how tall he was. Sherlock could cover the ground quickly and easily, taking long strides while she had to half run just to keep a pace with him. Lestrade had waved them through without another glance, but they received a lot of looks from the officers who moseyed around. "Bit of a celebrity, are you?" Rosie asked under her breath as she noticed a frizzy haired woman give Sherlock a withering stare.

"I am well known by the police of Scotland Yard," He confirmed as he stepped through a broken doorway. He noted how the door had been smashed down, only recently, the past few hours or so. He sniffed. There was a smell of damp and mould, now mixed with...the best term for it was fresh blood and organs. Rosie looked down as they turned a corner into one of the less decrepit rooms, only to gag at the sight in front of them. "Jesus," She frowned at the body on the floor, already surrounded by white tape. "What the hell happened to...I can't even tell who they are," The body had been mutilated beyond belief, the head cracked on the floor and the chest ripped open down the centre. Sherlock took a pair of gloves from a disgusted Lestrade before pushing his coat back and crouching next to the body. He studied it intently for a few moments, and then beckoned to Rosie without looking at her. "What do you think?"

"I might throw up soon," She replied sarcastically as she folded her arms.

"Please don't, you'll ruin the crime scene," Sherlock shot back. "I need time of death and whatever the attacker might have used," After a moment of internal dialogue Rosie snatched a pair of gloves and pulled them on. Upon inspection she muttered "Four-six hours, roughly. You need a proper test t-"

"I just need an estimate,"

"Fine," Rosie sighed as she moved to the head. "Blunt weapon here, lots of force behind it, I'd think," She glanced down at the face and then the body. "Sharp weapon here. Maybe he fell?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "For God's sake Rosie, look at his head. I doubt he could fall with enough force to crack his head open..." He trailed off, his eyes widening. "Oh. Oh!" Sherlock grinned before looking at the body with a new perspective. "He did fall, but there was something aiding him in the fall, in this case his attacker. Those were the latest marks on the body, so he fell, broke his skull and...oh this one is interesting," He had to stand to fully take in the body.

"What? What's so interesting?" Rosie stood with him, starting to fold her arms then remembering the gore on them, so let them hang by her sides.

"This! This body, the killer...I need to speak with the woman, the one you found," Sherlock ended up speaking quickly to Lestrade.

"Why? Sherlock I need some answers!" Lestrade glared at him.

"No, I need to find something out first, where is she?" Sherlock was already pulling the gloves off and motioning to Rosie to copy him. His mind was racing with possibilities, ideas popping up and fading like fireworks. "Come on come on! I want to finish this soon," He paused before adding "Actually, just hurry up so I can find out. I want this to last, but no longer that it should!" With that he darted outside again, a grin plastered across his face. Rosie gave Lestrade an apologetic smile as she carried her gloves out with her, not sure what else to do with them.

"You're excited," Rosie mused to him, half running just behind Sherlock. "More than you have been in the few days I've seen you," He turned his head for a moment with an eye roll.

"If you want to make a scene about it go ahead, I'm sure Sergeant Donovan would love to join you," Sherlock pulled his phone out as he growled.

"I'm not. I was just wondering why," She replied softly and shoved her hands in her pockets, inadvertently smearing blood on her coat. With a groan she took them back out, dropping the gloves in a pile of rubble.

Sherlock caught her movement and chuckled lowly. "Well that was subtle,"

"Shut up," Rosie groaned. "Where now?"

"I need to run some samples by the lab, I'll tell John to come and pick you up,"

"I'm not a bloody toddler, I can take care of myself," She protested in annoyance.

"You don't own a car, you're low on funds, and I don't think you know your way back from here, do you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"Three minutes down there, right, left, through Piccadilly and then go from there." Sherlock stopped suddenly and glanced at her. "However much I regret to admit this, I think I was mistaken," He mused, looking her up and down as his smirk returned. "I'm sure you'd love to walk though,"

"Sod off,"

"I would, but then how would you get back?" With a sigh Rosie stuck her non-gored hands back into her coat. "Fine. But I don't want to go back, I've got nothing to do in the flat,"

Sherlock's smirk grew wider and he nodded. "If you stay in the corner and don't ask for any toys then I think I'll let you stay,"

"Don't be sarcastic...or patronizing,"

"I wouldn't dream of it," He chuckled.


	7. Chapter 7

"Remind me why I thought coming with you was a good idea?" Rosie sat in the back of the cab, her arms crossed as Sherlock typed away on his phone.

"I don't know if you thought that, but it might have got something to do with the free rent," Sherlock said absently. Rosie sighed, staring out of the window.

"Yes," She drew the word out into two syllables. "But why else? A lovely corpse and a few insufferable sounding police officers don't really sound that great,"

"Corpses are never lovely, but they are interesting. That is why I took the case," Sherlock stuffed his phone into his pocket with an pert nod. "A cure for boredom, as it were. I can get incredibly bored, you have provided me with a small amount of entertainment for the past few days. You're an incredibly heavy sleeper, however,"

Rosie bristled, not sure if it was a compliment or an insult. "How did you know that? Apart from standing in my room watching me sleep? Because that is just plain creepy,"

"Please, I'm not a common stalker," Rolling his eyes he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "I was playing my violin at three, yesterday and this morning. You didn't even stir, although John did the moment he heard. I'd shut the door and everything," Sherlock huffed. "Really he has no consideration for my thought processes,"

"Sounds like it," She replied sarcastically. "Being woken up at three by a violin, he should have offered to make you a cup of tea instead of tell you to go to sleep already," Sherlock went to make a cutting remark, but instead raised his eyebrows and let out a breath before turning his gaze to the window. She was stubborn, that's all he knew. Well, that and everything about her life, her clothes, social habits...the list went on, and Sherlock was certain that he probably knew her better than her parents. Who were actually incredibly respectable. Mr and Mrs Adams, from Reading, both excellent lawyers. Which is why she intrigued him. Why run away from that, and train to be a doctor, when she had everything she could want for at home. After a millisecond of thinking he half smiled. She couldn't stand it, of course. A lot like him, enough money and the smarts to be an incredible business man or even a philosopher if he wanted. Yet when he was young he had wanted to be a pirate.

The crime scene was a dilapidated warehouse, the windows boarded up messily with graffiti sprayed on the crumbling brick work. The whole area had been corded off with the garish yellow police tape, marking out a large circle around the entrance to the building. Sherlock paid and slid out of the cab lithely, walking across to the tape without noticing anyone else. Rosie followed him quickly, already annoyed at how tall he was. Sherlock could cover the ground quickly and easily, taking long strides while she had to half run just to keep a pace with him. Lestrade had waved them through without another glance, but they received a lot of looks from the officers who moseyed around. "Bit of a celebrity, are you?" Rosie asked under her breath as she noticed a frizzy haired woman give Sherlock a withering stare.

"I am well known by the police of Scotland Yard," He confirmed as he stepped through a broken doorway. He noted how the door had been smashed down, only recently, the past few hours or so. He sniffed. There was a smell of damp and mould, now mixed with...the best term for it was fresh blood and organs. Rosie looked down as they turned a corner into one of the less decrepit rooms, only to gag at the sight in front of them. "Jesus," She frowned at the body on the floor, already surrounded by white tape. "What the hell happened to...I can't even tell who they are," The body had been mutilated beyond belief, the head cracked on the floor and the chest ripped open down the centre. Sherlock took a pair of gloves from a disgusted Lestrade before pushing his coat back and crouching next to the body. He studied it intently for a few moments, and then beckoned to Rosie without looking at her. "What do you think?"

"I might throw up soon," She replied sarcastically as she folded her arms.

"Please don't, you'll ruin the crime scene," Sherlock shot back. "I need time of death and whatever the attacker might have used," After a moment of internal dialogue Rosie snatched a pair of gloves and pulled them on. Upon inspection she muttered "Four-six hours, roughly. You need a proper test t-"

"I just need an estimate,"

"Fine," Rosie sighed as she moved to the head. "Blunt weapon here, lots of force behind it, I'd think," She glanced down at the face and then the body. "Sharp weapon here. Maybe he fell?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "For God's sake Rosie, look at his head. I doubt he could fall with enough force to crack his head open..." He trailed off, his eyes widening. "Oh. Oh!" Sherlock grinned before looking at the body with a new perspective. "He did fall, but there was something aiding him in the fall, in this case his attacker. Those were the latest marks on the body, so he fell, broke his skull and...oh this one is interesting," He had to stand to fully take in the body.

"What? What's so interesting?" Rosie stood with him, starting to fold her arms then remembering the gore on them, so let them hang by her sides.

"This! This body, the killer...I need to speak with the woman, the one you found," Sherlock ended up speaking quickly to Lestrade.

"Why? Sherlock I need some answers!" Lestrade glared at him.

"No, I need to find something out first, where is she?" Sherlock was already pulling the gloves off and motioning to Rosie to copy him. His mind was racing with possibilities, ideas popping up and fading like fireworks. "Come on come on! I want to finish this soon," He paused before adding "Actually, just hurry up so I can find out. I want this to last, but no longer that it should!" With that he darted outside again, a grin plastered across his face. Rosie gave Lestrade an apologetic smile as she carried her gloves out with her, not sure what else to do with them.

"You're excited," Rosie mused to him, half running just behind Sherlock. "More than you have been in the few days I've seen you," He turned his head for a moment with an eye roll.

"If you want to make a scene about it go ahead, I'm sure Sergeant Donovan would love to join you," Sherlock pulled his phone out as he growled.

"I'm not. I was just wondering why," She replied softly and shoved her hands in her pockets, inadvertently smearing blood on her coat. With a groan she took them back out, dropping the gloves in a pile of rubble.

Sherlock caught her movement and chuckled lowly. "Well that was subtle,"

"Shut up," Rosie groaned. "Where now?"

"I need to run some samples by the lab, I'll tell John to come and pick you up,"

"I'm not a bloody toddler, I can take care of myself," She protested in annoyance.

"You don't own a car, you're low on funds, and I don't think you know your way back from here, do you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"Three minutes down there, right, left, through Piccadilly and then go from there." Sherlock stopped suddenly and glanced at her. "However much I regret to admit this, I think I was mistaken," He mused, looking her up and down as his smirk returned. "I'm sure you'd love to walk though,"

"Sod off,"

"I would, but then how would you get back?" With a sigh Rosie stuck her non-gored hands back into her coat. "Fine. But I don't want to go back, I've got nothing to do in the flat,"

Sherlock's smirk grew wider and he nodded. "If you stay in the corner and don't ask for any toys then I think I'll let you stay,"

"Don't be sarcastic...or patronizing,"

"I wouldn't dream of it," He chuckled.

((A/N Sorry for the wait, things and stuff have popped up, hopefully I'll be updating more regularly now))


	8. Chapter 8

Motioning for her to follow him, Sherlock walked back to the main road. With ease, Sherlock called a cab, his height being the main factor that made it so effortless for him to hail one. Not so much for Rosie, who just felt like a dwarf next to him. She followed him in wordlessly and remained silent until he spoke up "I'm curious, why study such a diverse array of subjects? The medicinal ones I can understand, for your degree, but psychology? Not many aspiring doctors would consider it an option,"

Rosie tapped the armrest with her fingers, as if she was thinking about what to say to him. "I...I don't know. It seemed like an interesting subject, so I looked into it. All about trying to find out how people react, herd mentality, why we do what we do...just a hobby,"

"So you bought six books on it, all rather expensive ones at that," He countered, almost nonchalantly. Sherlock didn't know if he was prying or not, he just had to appease his curiosity.

"More than a hobby then. But none of your businesses, you've only known me for a few days," She rolled her eyes to look back out of the window, watching the trees and greyish scenery as they sped past it. London was particularly dreary today, one of those days where you were never sure if you needed an umbrella or not. Typically, tourists from all over had purchased the gaudy Union Jack one's which filled the small shops on the street, bright little spots or red, white and blue.

"I know people for only a few days, but it's really like I've known them for years. I'd recommend you switch back to your brown hair however, your roots are starting to show and I doubt you can...afford hair dye right now," Sherlock spoke up all of a sudden, gesturing to her wavy hair. Maybe he should have added a compliment, to make her feel better about it. "It would...go better with your eyes,"

Rosie shot him a killer look, her eyes narrowing. "It's my natural colour. I'm just...slowly turning brown. It's a genetic thing, my mum had it and so did my grandmother," Folding her arms with a huff she glanced back out of the window. "You're meant to be the 'great' detective, couldn't you have seen that from...I don't know, the follicles or whatever?"

"I rarely make mistakes," He replied hotly as he scowled, Sherlock never liked to admit he was wrong and loathed it when someone caught him out. "I was trying to help,"

"Your idea of help is a lot different from most people's,"

"Well...at least I try to be nice to people, you're just being...being grumpy," Sherlock felt like it was the most pathetic excuse he'd ever come up with, but he honestly didn't know how to deal with this girl. She was a great deal younger than him, and had clearly never heard of the term 'respect your elders'

"Grumpy? I was forced awake by...I have no idea what it was, a noise or a smell, but it woke me up far too early for me to function properly,"

"It was eight in the morning!"

"Which is extremely early, at least by my standards,"

"Your standards are moronic,"

"Oi, you two. We're here," The cabbie broke off their conversational argument with a grunt, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hospital, almost glowing a surprisingly bright white colour in the sunlight-lacking day that made Rosie's eyes hurt. Glare, she thought quickly. Sherlock reached into his pocket to hand over some money and got out, not really waiting for Rosie than simply slowing down a little, his normal, lengthy strides cut so she would be able to walk next to him.

"So, gaping holes in victims throat, body ripped apart, lots of blood, gore, a heavy object hit their head...what do you think?"

Rosie almost stopped walking. "You're asking _my _opinion on this?"

"Of course," Sherlock rolled his eyes before giving her a contemptuous glare. "I need more than my own opinion, or I'll miss something,"

"Well, erm..." Rosie thought for a moment before replying. "Big dog? Really, really big dog, like a mastiff or a wolfhound?" It was a bit of a moronic idea, but hey, he didn't specify that.

Sherlock was the one who paused this time. "Were there teeth marks?" He muttered to himself. There had been, faint, but the knife Lestrade said had been used...it had been blunt, cumbersome, with a sharp point. "Yes...that's not particularly good,"

"Why? It's just a dog, lure it in with a bit of meat and give it to the police. I'm sure they always want attack dogs. Or the army, if it's big enough?" Rosie shrugged with her hands in her slightly bloodstained pockets. She'd need to wash that jacket now.

"No, no. That's the point, someone may have already done that. It relies on if Lestrade finds anything else. If he does, he'll call me. Which I really, really hope he does," Sherlock murmured as he wandered into the hospital, coat flaring out behind him.

((A/N Gosh sorry for the wait, exams are a pain in the butt. I hope that I can write a little more now, I've kind of been losing steam...might stick to one shots if I can, I will endeavour to finish this though, I've got quite a plan for it...ehehe))


	9. Chapter 9

"Molly, brilliant," Sherlock huffed with a small smile as he strode in, his eyes crinkling. Rosie followed, a little breathless from having to keep up with the significantly taller man, but smiled all the same at the small woman in the room. She raised her hand in greeting, and the woman half smiled in return, putting her clipboard down onto the cluttered island in the middle of the room. "Oh, Sherlock, um...hi," Molly blushed a little and ducked her head. "The, erm, the new body parts you wanted are in. The eyes are in the back, I'm afraid I couldn't get a liver on such short notice thou-"

"It's fine. I've got a case now, I don't need to bother with my experiments for a bit," Sherlock cut her off with a wave of his hand, tugging his scarf and coat off before folding them onto the back of a chair. "I need to run a few tests. Molly, this is Rosie. Rosie, Molly. Look after her while I'm busy," With that he whisked away, a small, clear packet in one hand and his phone in the other. Great, Rosie thought, a scowl appearing on her features. Just leave me alone with a complete and utter stranger.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Rosie cleared her throat and smiled warmly up at Molly. "So, you work with Sherlock?"

"Oh, um, yes. In a way. I help when I can, but he mainly just comes in here for experiments," The woman gave a little shrug, at least being polite enough to turn around and face Rosie, a small smile on her lips. "I...are you his girlfriend?" She asked all of a sudden, her attention completely focused on her. "I mean, he never mentions anything, or anyone, I just thought, sorry for being forward but I just wanted to ask,"

Rosie blinked in surprise, before laughing and shaking her head. "No, God no. I've only known him for a few days. I...I was in a bit of a bad place, and he helped me. After John had intervened," She had guessed that Molly new about Sherlock's companion, and gave her another smile. "Also, he almost thirty years older than me. I was in my second year of uni, until I was, well, until I left," Rosie looked down at the table with a small sigh, tapping the white surface with her fingers.

"Oh," Molly seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and Rosie wondered if there was something between her and Sherlock. It would make sense, of course. Molly was clearly smart if she worked here, albeit not as smart as the detective. But then again, few people were. "So you're just his friend?"

"I think he'd call it babysitting, but...I don't know. Really I just live in the flat above him, John was out and he needed and assistant to help him. The only thing I've managed to accomplish though is get blood on my jacket," Rosie chuckled and motioned to her pocket, rolling her eyes as she did so.

"Hydrogen peroxide," The doctor piped up, smiling darting over to a cupboard. "It dissolves blood, no trace, and it'll work perfectly on your jacket," She pulled out a little bottle, and briefly glanced towards the room Sherlock had disappeared into. "If you want, I can do it now? I'm not doing much anyway, and he's probably going to be in there for a while. Also saves you the trouble of getting anything on your hands and regretting it," Rosie brightened and started to shrug it off, splaying it out on the table. "If you don't mind, and it's not too much trouble..."

"Please. I'm always having to clean my scrubs, especially if Sherlock's been in there before me," Molly huffed a little, with a pout. "He makes such a mess sometimes,"

"Do you like him?" Leaning back in her chair, Rosie watched intently as the woman worked, wanting to know for future reference. Well, she wouldn't have before all of this, but considering she was working with a mad detective who seemed insistent on dragging someone he knew with him to crime scenes...always good to be prepared.

Molly's cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "W-well...I admire him, and he's around here a lot..." She swallowed as she dabbed the solution onto the dark material of the jacket, avoiding the question as best she could. Rosie nodded, saving her the trouble. "He's insane, but I have to admit he's smart," She added and sighed, rubbing her eyes. "John'll be here soon, then I can go back and sleep,"

"Didn't you last night?"

"Nope. Stupid Sherlock with his violin. Or he made something smell really bad. Either way, I was up early today and I blame him," Rosie shook her head as she folded her arms a little. Granted it had been about mid morning when he had woke her up, she felt like she deserved a few lie-ins before she had to go back to acting like an adult, not the teenager she desperately wanted to default to. After all, she had been living on the streets for a couple of days.

"Oh, I've never heard him play, apart from once at Christmas," Her reply was a little wistful, and Rosie tilted her head in confusion.

"I heard about him, ages ago, he was in the papers for a case he had solved. What happened? There was nothing on the news about him for months, nothing in the papers, not even on the internet," Rosie kept her voice low and her eyes flicked to the door, wondering if Sherlock could hear them. She didn't care, her curiosity was peaked and she just _had _to know. Molly finished attending to the jacket, and turned around, leaning on the desk with her head bowed.

"You heard about Jim Moriarty though, didn't you?" Rosie nodded stiffly. "The Napoleon of Crime, I think was his title. I read about it in the papers,"

"He...it was covered. Everyone knew about that, how he was a fake, how Jim was just an actor," Molly played with the end of her ponytail and avoided Rosie's eyes, her own looking glassy. "Sherlock had to pretend to...to die. We all kept it as quiet as we could, the only information that Scotland Yard released was that he was dead. No one said how it happened," She bit her lip before continuing, and Rosie wondered if it was truly Molly being nervous, or if she was just doing it for effect. "I admit, I helped him. I never thought he'd disappear for three years though. John...he was so damaged by it. He started limping again, he was a soldier, an army doctor, he got shot and returned home, PTSD I think..." Molly lifted her eyes for only a moment, before a large smile was forced onto her face. "John, hi! I...how are you?" Rosie turned around to see the aforementioned army doctor striding towards them, and easy smile on his face. "Hi, Molly. Rosie," He nodded to both of them before tugging up a seat, looking so comfortable and friendly that Rosie just couldn't imagine him as a grizzled soldier, with a gun in his hands and a stony expression on his face.

"Sherlock's just in there," Molly jerked her thumb in the direction of the door. "I don't know what he's doing, only that he breezed in here, dropped his things and locked himself in the lab," John chuckled and Rosie relaxed a bit, smiling at the two of them. "One sec, I'll be back in a bit. I just want to get a drink. Do you guys want anything?" She murmured and slid from her seat.

"I'm fine," Molly and John chorused, almost used to it and looking a little puzzled after they spoke in unison.

"Okay, don't you dare leave without me John, I don't want to be all alone here," Rosie said to him with a smirk before turning and walking out of the lab, wandering around a little until she managed to find the drinks machine.

"Hey," An lilting Irish voice came from behind her as Rosie was trying to figure out the controls, making her jump and spin around.

"Christ, you frightened me," She gasped, her hand on her heart. How had this guy managed to sneak up on her? The sterile hallway was deserted, spare the odd doctor coming out of the lift at the other end.

"Sorry, you just looked a little stuck," His chuckle was warm and friendly, as the guy held out his hand, pressing a button so that hot coffee and steaming milk began to drip into the blue plastic cup. "It takes a while to get used to. The IT one upstairs is broken, so all of us have to come down here if we want a drink,"

"That must be irritating," Rosie smiled. It was hard not to, what with him being so friendly. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name,"

"Jim. Jim Maddens," Jim offered Rosie his hand and shook hers, tilting his head to the side.

"I'm Rosie, Stapleton," She replied in turn. Jim seemed to change for a moment, his head tilting to the side and his eyes narrowing a fraction, causing Rosie's hand to twitch in his firm grasp. "Well, Rosie, I really hope one of your relatives isn't sick," The strange feeling she'd been getting off him faded instantly, prompting Rosie to shake her head. "No, I'm just here as a favour, for a...a friend. Helping out in the labs. I'll probably have to go soon, but I might be around,"

"Maybe then you'll figure out how to use the machine then," Jim's smile returned like a lightbulb being flicked on, almost seeming more fake than the other times he'd smiled. Did her name remind him of someone? There was a beep from the machine behind her, and Rosie extracted her hand to grab the cup, giving him a fleeting smile. "Hopefully I will," She smiled once again before she started walking away down the corridor. "See you around, Jim,"

"You too," He pressed a few buttons and started to wait, whistling an 80's song that Rosie could hear all the way to the lab.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the flat, Sherlock seemed restless. Rosie had curled up on the sofa with a book and a mug of tea that John had kindly made for her, and every now and then she looked up to see Sherlock pacing agitatedly, his lips pursed and a fierce look in his eyes. "Can you just calm down for a minute?" She asked innocently, an eyebrow quirking up at him. "You've been pacing for ages, you're tiring me out,"

"I'm thinking. It's hard, this is all very...very interesting," Sherlock paused to look at the little scrap of paper in his hand, making a face. "Dog saliva. In the wounds, but...this dog would have to be massive, absolutely enormous, to cause damage like that. There was only one type of dog hair found at the scene, with the same DNA and in copious amounts, all of which belonged to an Irish wolfhound. A large dog, but..." He dropped the paper onto the table and ruffled his hair in annoyance. "God, it's just beyond my reach, I can feel it in my mind!"

"Take a break then," Rosie shrugged and dropped her eyes again. "Watch TV, have a nap, read. It's relaxing,"

When Sherlock lifted his eyes, he looked at her as if she had grown two heads. "Did you hit your head while we were out, or are you just this stupid all the time?" He snapped, causing Rosie to glare at him. She was about to reply with a derogatory remark when John recognized the warning signs and stepped in, quite literally. He stood between them and knelt down to pick up the paper. "Sherlock, just calm down. Rosie, he doesn't mean it, he's just stressed from the case. Look, mate, have you considered this might have some connections with Baskerville? I mean, we thought it was a hell-hound then, turned out to be a regular dog," Sherlock instantly started to relax, the cogs in his head turning and whirring. "Possible. But I doubt they're breeding them smart enough to make it all the way to London from Dartmoor, just to kill someone and bring their attention to them," He slumped down into his armchair with a huff, steepling his fingers under his chin. John made a face and walked towards the kitchen, mumbling that he could have at least been grateful for the idea. Rosie shot him a thankful look, sipping her tea before looking back at her book. "Or maybe someone made them and brought them down here?" She offered absently. Sherlock actually looked up at that with a mildly confused expression onto his face which smoothed out into a look of consideration. Rosie glanced up at the silence and rolled her eyes.

"Sherlock, I was joking. Don't jus-"

"Rosie, it's a good idea. Honestly," Sherlock nodded as he reached for the nearest laptop, flipping it open and waiting for it to load. She was just about to look back down at her book before frowning, shooting him a look.

"Hey, that's mine,"

"And your password is stupid,"

"You're stupid,"

"Alright, stop it. Sherlock, you should have asked, and Rosie, you shouldn't even bother. Setting a new password only encourages him," John brought a couple of mugs in, setting one on the table next to Sherlock and taking the other to his armchair. Sherlock didn't even look up, his fingers flying over the keys.

"He should stay away from my things," Rosie muttered petulantly into her book, curling up even more into the sofa with a frown. It was irritating beyond belief, but she didn't say anything else on the matter. Yes Sherlock could be a prick, yes he could be annoying, but he was bloody brilliant most of the time, and there was little she could do to stop him. After all, he was paying for her flat, but there was no way she was going to voice her thoughts. His ego was big enough already.

Her new phone buzzed in her pocket, causing Rosie to frown and tug it out. An unknown number. Blocked at that. She laid her book down on her knee to answer the call, her phone lightly pressed against her ear. No answer.

"Hello?"

Silence. John looked up as she repeated the word, a little cautiously with a small frown and a questioning look on his face. After only a few moments, Rosie simply shrugged and ended the call. "Pocket dial, I guess, or just someone playing a joke. I used to get them a lot, but sometimes I'd get a random impersonation from one of my friends," She laid the phone down next to her before continuing to read, quickly becoming re-absorbed in the book. It was one of the few fiction novels she had been able to keep, and the only one she refused to sell. It was fanciful and probably a little childish for a young adult, but Rosie still enjoyed it, even if she had been forced to forfeit the other three books just to buy herself some food.

"Franklin," Sherlock blurted after a short amount of time. "Franklin, the one who died at Baskerville, land mine. Does he have any relatives?" John and Rosie stayed silent, about to ask what he was going on about before Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head. "No, why would you know? I'm the one with the laptop, I could have just searched it. Stupid," He began to rapidly type again, much to their mutual confusion.

"Baskerville?" Rosie asked eventually, as she was helping John with the washing up. They'd gone through a surprising amount of mugs in the past few days, and she'd taken to helping John clean up, as a way of apologising for drinking too much.

"A case, in Dartmoor. Genetic mutation, neurotic gas and an old legend about a demon hound," John put it succinctly, absently dropping another mug into the foamy water before washing it. "It was interesting, and Sherlock scared the hell out of me in one of the labs. But it ended well...I think. We killed the dog and the young man we were helping found, well, a balm for his madness. But the 'bad guy' got away, and he was killed by a landmine," He sighed and handed her the now clean, if damp, cup. "Long time ago now, almost four years. This case was going to be the one that brought us back, after he..." Trailing off wasn't a good sign, especially with that part wistful, part grief-stricken look that crept up onto John's features. Rosie quickly steered the conversation away, deciding to look into Sherlock's supposed 'death' when she had a chance, and try to better understand what the hell he had done to damage John so badly.

((OoooOOOoooh also if you can guess the book Rosie was talking about I'll give you a cookie))


	11. Notice

Right.

Now, I'm finding it really hard to write recently, especially with regards to my John After the Reichenbach. I've found that I write one-shots and short stories much better than longer fics, and I will need to dedicate my time more to school.

This doesn't necessarily mean an end to the fic! I know I've not updated in a really, really long time, but I think that I will need more for this story. I have the idea, I just lack the motivation/the knowledge of how to write it.

Thank you for everyone who's read my fics, and who's added it to their favourites. I just need some time, and I'll hopefully be able to get this story done, even if I have to chain myself to my laptop and write the whole damn thing in one sitting.

Thank you again, and I hope I can write again soon ^-^ 3


	12. Chapter 11

The next morning, when John had just woken up, he heard noises coming from the living room, raised voices that sounded angry.

"Sherlock, no,"

"Rosie, yes,"

"Sherlock, no. I didn't do it,"

John frowned when he heard the commotion, and he padded into the living room with his dressing gown half on. What he found, was Sherlock crouched on his armchair and Rosie sitting on the sofa, both of them glaring at each other.

"What the hell are you two arguing about this time?" He asked sleepily, wandering over to the kitchen. He'd need tea before he deal with this, and as the kettle boiled he returned his attention to the pair. Sherlock got there first, pointing at Rosie like a spoilt child.

"She hacked my laptop. _My_ laptop. Every single search on Franklin and Stapleton was gone, and all the files I saved had been deleted. Not just sent to the recycle bin, John. Deleted,"

"Christ Sherlock, I haven't bloody touched your laptop! I was in my flat the whole morning, and I only came down to ask you two if you were going anywhere today!" Rosie countered, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock and scowling. "How could I have hacked into your laptop anyway? I don't even know how to change my own password, on my own laptop!"

"Oh?" Sherlock smirked, before he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a memory stick. "Then how do you explain this? Planning on something? Or are you lying? Maybe you did manage to hack in, and this is all a ploy? Hm?"

John watched with increasing horror, before he stepped over to Sherlock. "Where the hell did you find that?" He asked, glancing at Rosie as he spoke. She looked on the verge of tears, or throwing a punch at Sherlock. Either one would surely make him react, but in completely different ways.

"Her jacket," Sherlock growled, waving the stick in John's face. "The one she wore yesterday. Probably picked it up from someone while we got a cab. You're little slip-up outside, and that whole story about being kicked from uni, that's not true, is it?"

"Of course it's bloody well true!" Rosie cried, her hands balling into fists. "I've never seen that thing before in my life! You may call yourself a genius but you're just a thick, stupid, moronic pri-" Sherlock cut her off with a wave of his hand, before chuckling and narrowing his eyes.

"It seems we've drawn attention to ourselves, then," He murmured, settling back into his armchair and setting up his laptop.

"What?" John and Rosie asked, completely befuddled by the sudden change in Sherlock's mood. Rosie even looked up at John, as if he knew the answer, but the man simply shrugged and shook his head.

"You disappeared, went to get coffee while you had your jacket on. Someone must have slipped this into your pocket, and snuck in last night to edit my computer. I have to admit, it was slick, but you weren't lying. I had to be sure. One thing I am interested in, Rosie Stapleton, is why you didn't contact your parents when you were thrown out. Then, I realised. You have a sticker on one of your books and a badge on your bag. You're a vegetarian, and you hate the idea of animals being tested on for anything other than major medical reasons. That's why your little sister's rabbit disappeared, by the way, and why she asked you first on its location, before you told her that...Bluebell was simply magic. Because you knew why her rabbit had disappeared, didn't you? And that's why you moved soon after that, to your aunt's house, I'm guessing. You didn't have to play coy about Baskerville, however, I had saw you tense when we mentioned it,"

John took a while to catch onto what Sherlock had said, but Rosie's face just drained of colour. "Oh...my God. You...you don't think my mum did this, did you?" She shook her head, swallowing hard. "No...she made things that weren't needed but she never made a hound like that. She never would, let alone free it to just roam around London!"

"No, I didn't say that," Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. "I was only searching for links. Stolen equipment, mainly. Your mother came out of that case as spotless as when she went in. Someone else has been doing this, which is why I'm searching for Franklin," He offered her a brief smile before his head ducked down again, his eyes scanning the screen.

Rosie took a while to calm down, and she only really did once John had brought her tea. It was fast becoming a tradition, one that Rosie seriously didn't mind. It was terrifying, how easily Sherlock had found all of that out. She wanted to keep it a secret, keep it away from everyone. She wasn't proud of what her mother did, and just the mention of Bluebell was enough to make her feel teary eyed. Kristy had searched for ages to find the rabbit, after it had started to glow, and each time she asked Rosie had almost broken and told her what had really happened. But she'd had no idea that her sister had contacted a detective.

A few hours later, Sherlock and John were out, leaving Rosie to roam the two flats. She cleaned a little, read, and generally got used to the rooms. It was nice to have her own flat, even though she knew she'd have to get some type of job soon. At least for now she could help them on the case. It was an interesting one, after all, especially seeing that she might be able to prove her mother's innocence. However much she hated what the woman did, she was still her mother, and not much could make her change her mind. At one point, the doorbell rang, and Rosie hopped down the stairs before she answered it.

"Lestrade?" She cocked her head to the side, as the man offered her a smile.

"Hey, Rosie. Feeling okay after yesterday?"

She nodded, chuckling a little and shrugging. "I got blood on my coat, mainly thanks to Sherlock. But I'm fine. How can I help?"

"Is he in? Or John? We had these tapes delivered, I brought them over so that you could listen. It's only audio, but it's useful. The witness can't remember anything, but it seems like...well," He rubbed the back of his neck, pulling a face. "It seems like she had drugs put into her system. She was forced to watch whatever was happening to the victim, then afterwards she passed out and forgot everything apart from how...we found out it was her boyfriend. Fiancé, actually. She's in no state to talk to Sherlock, at any rate, so we decided the tapes would work better. They've been edited, really badly, but it's almost...like highlights, of the whole thing," Lestrade held out a package, which Rosie took and nodded.

"I'll hand them over when they get back. Thanks Lestrade,"

"Call me Greg," He grinned, chuckling as he stepped back onto the pavement. "Only Sherlock calls me Lestrade, mainly because he can't remember my bloody name," Rosie felt a smile quirk at her lips, and she nodded before waving and closing the door behind her. They had audio, now. After a moment of debating, Rosie jogged up the stairs, her socked feet making little to no noise, and she stuck the first tape into a little tape recorder she had found, under a pile of Sherlock's papers.

_Hello. This is for Sherlock Holmes. I'm using a synthesiser, so you can't use voice recognition on this tape. I know you would try it, you clever man. But it won't work. _

_This is a game I put together, for us to play. Anyone you bring in will be hurt, especially if I think they would add a little...flavour, to our experience._

Rosie listened intently, her heart beating a little quicker. She could be hurt? No...she hadn't been brought into this. She'd done nothing to help, at least, not yet.

_Three more will die, so you can get an idea of what I'm proposing. You won't be able to save them, or the ones who watch. It's rather like hunting, I have to admit. Loose a wild animal onto someone and watch as they try to survive. _

_I'm getting off subject again. I'm sorry, but it's just an honour to have you involved. Everyone else is so boring. You would know that, wouldn't you though? Hm, I know you do. And I know I'm not the first to say that to you, am I?_

_Anyway. Three more will die, and there is nothing you can do. Think of it as...an intro to my game. Once you've learned the rules, I'll bring you into it, properly. Then you have to watch, and see if you've played the game well enough. _

_Enjoy, a symphony of my design. _

Rosie didn't need to listen to what came next, but she had a good idea of what it might be. Sure enough, the moment the first scream started to play she turned the player off, shivering and closing her eyes. Once she had seen that there were almost six other tapes...Christ, it dragged on. For a long time, even though Greg said that it had been cropped. She let out a shaky sigh as she lowered the tape player, running her hands through her hair. Sherlock went up again real, genuine serial killers. Smart ones, at that. Rosie had no idea what she had gotten herself into, but she just hoped that it would work out.


End file.
